


Revolution of the Times

by Arlome



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Amputation, F/M, Post-War, Sex, War, War Fic, World War I, thoughts about fate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28572933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome
Summary: More than a decade after the events of the Great War, Phryne’s past finds its way into her present in the most unexpected way.
Relationships: Jack Robinson & Original Character(s), Phryne Fisher & Original Character(s), Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 98
Kudos: 146





	1. France, July 1916

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurora_australis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/gifts).



> About three months ago, I watched a lovely Aussie show called “ANZAC girls”. To the surprise of absolutely no one, I got so inspired that I immediately started writing a mfmm equivalent in the form of a two-chapter monstrosity that got lovingly dubbed as “war fic”.  
> Now, originally, I wanted to wait until chapter two was betad and edited, but as today is my Ficversary, I decided to shove part one in your faces and hope you enjoy it :D 
> 
> To my beloved Aurora_Australis, my trusted beta and amazing friend, this fic is for you.
> 
> Title from Henry IV, II, Act III.

**France, July 1916**

He is brought in towards the end of her shift.

Stretchers upon stretchers of moaning, crying men, trembling with the ebb of adrenaline, twisted in horrific pain. Phryne notices him immediately - even covered with the grime of the trenches, the almost angelic features of his face shine through. Dark, mud-caked curls, sharp cheekbones, and eyes the colour of her homeland’s sky.

She rushes towards him with efficiency born out of the necessities of her profession, taking charge of the situation, and assessing the damage to the best of her ability. There’s a blood-stained tag attached to his army jacket; one of the ambulance drivers – of her own unit, perhaps – scribbled the words ‘ _ shrapnel wound, left shin _ ’ on it in a hasty hand.

It’s an ugly injury, she can see as much as she lifts the bandage; gaping, bleeding and sullied with dirt from the trenches. She’ll have to clean it immediately if she wants the owner of said shin to keep it attached to the rest of his body.

The soldier hisses in pain as she moves to replace the dressing but doesn’t cry out. He’s trembling beneath her hand like a leaf, uncontrollably and violently. She can hear his teeth chattering.

Leaning towards him, Phryne smiles and reaches for his hand.

“What’s your name, Private?” she asks softly, her fingers tightening around his.

“R-Robinson,” he rasps in an achingly familiar accent, unable to stop shaking. “D-David James R-Robinson.”

She finds it oddly endearing that he offers her his full name, like one would do for a schoolteacher or a headmaster.

“Australian?” she whispers, allowing some of her own Aussie edge to come forth. The soldier’s eyes widen and moisten in the corners.

“M-Melbourne,” he stammers, gripping her hand tighter.

“Collingwood,” she offers gently in return, and he screws his eyes shut, cracked lips trembling.

“A-Am I going to lose my leg, S-Sister?”

Phryne glances downwards at the bloody bandage. She doesn’t like giving false hope.

“I hope not.”

He nods, oddly resigned for such a young man.

“I-I’d rather keep it if it’s a-all the s-same to you.”

She surprises herself by laughing; much more used to crying at situations such as these, she finds herself inappropriately light-hearted at the unexpected reaction from her patient.

“I’m sorry,” she offers, somewhat chagrined.

Private Robinson shakes his head.

“D-Don’t be,” he sighs and winces when she uncovers his wound again. “Y-You have a l-lovely laugh.”

Phryne hides her smile from him. Her laugh has been described as many things over the years, but never lovely. The poor boy must be delirious with pain.

“I’m going to clean your wound now,” she takes his hand again. “Would you like some morphine?”

He closes his eyes and nods shakily.

“I-I wouldn’t say no, S-Sister.”

She gets to work.

* * *

She sees him again the following morning, tucking into the cook’s porridge with healthy enthusiasm. He’s lying in bed, left shin bandaged, his face and hair clean. She finds herself appreciating his fine features, purely on an aesthetic level. Lean, tall, exceptionally handsome; it’d be a great shame if he’d have to lose the leg.

“Private Robinson!” she greets him jovially as she takes a seat by his bed. “You look lively today. How are we faring?”

He winces when she lifts the bandage to inspect the wound. It doesn’t look too good.

“Morning, Sister -?”

She schools her worried features and glances up at him, putting on a bright smile.

“Fisher. Sister Fisher.”

“Morning, Sister Fisher!” He inclines his head towards her and places the porridge bowl in his lap. “I can’t complain. I’m clean, dry, in great company, and the food doesn’t taste like mud.”

The smile on her face turns soft at the edges.

“I’m happy to hear it. Any pain?”

He shakes his head and picks up the bowl again, lifting the spoon to his mouth.

“The generous Sister Steele gave me some morphine 30 minutes ago,” he provides once he’s swallowed, pointing the piece of cutlery in the direction of a pretty blonde nurse who blushes and smiles at the praise. “I could dance a jig!”

Phryne laughs and pats his covered thigh.

“Perhaps not just yet, but I do appreciate the enthusiasm.”

He smiles at her, eyes crinkling amicably, the expression making him appear almost boyish. Something twinges behind her ribs at the light-heartedness of that look, at the sheer joy of being free of pain and having a belly full of food that isn’t rotten, at the relief of being clean and dry. If only she could keep him here - keep them all here - mostly safe and relatively sound, until the end of this bloody war. 

She mentally shakes herself; morning rounds are hardly the time for such intrusive, melancholy thoughts, and she’s already behind schedule. She bids the young man a good day and continues on to her next patient, a ready smile on her face. When she reaches the supply cabinet for a quick restock of bandages, Sister Steele comes forward smiling sadly.

“Have you seen Private Robinson’s leg?” she asks quietly. Phryne nods.

“Yes, it doesn’t look good, does it?”

Sister Steele sighs and shakes her head.

“His temperature’s spiking, Fish,” she whispers, sounding almost forlorn. “Major Terrence will probably want to amputate. Oh, what a damned waste.”

Phryne nods mutely, and looks over to the young man in question, now lying peacefully in his bed, reading a book.

“What a damned waste,” she echoes.

Damned, wretched waste.

* * *

By next morning, the decision is made; the leg has got to go.

Private Robinson spends the night delirious with fever, and Phryne sits by his side most of her shift, changing the cool cloth on his burning forehead.

It probably can’t be helped, she knows, gangrene must have set into the tissue by now, but she finds herself sighing dejectedly, nonetheless. 

Major Terrence arrives in the morning and delivers the verdict; it’s off to the gallows with the rotting limb. At least he looks sufficiently lugubrious about it.

“Is there really no other way?” Phryne implores, despite her knowing that hope at this stage is rather futile.

The Major shakes his head and folds his arms. The white coat he’s wearing over his uniform stretches with the gesture.

“The infection is spreading rapidly,” he explains patiently, keeping his voice low. “I’d rather the Private loses his leg, than his life. Prep for amputation below the knee, please, Sister Fisher.”

She nods forlornly and motions for two orderlies to get a stretcher ready. This must be done fast.

Private Robinson’s eyes are at half-mast, his brow beaded with sweat, his striped pyjamas soaked through. He acknowledges Phryne with a slight smile that is saturated in pain.

“We haven’t had a dance, Sister Fisher,” he croaks, wanly stretching his fingers in her direction. She grabs his weak hand between two of her own. The skin is clammy to the touch.

“You’re so brave, David,” she soothes, using his given name, and presses his palm. “So, so brave.”

She feels her heart break at the tears that spill from the corner of his eye. He’s so young, so full of life; it’s not right. It’s not –

“If I don’t… tell my mother I’m sorry? And…m-my brother - 5 th Division, L-Lance- Corp – “

“I will,” she promises, understanding his plea. From the corner of her eye, she can see the orderlies arriving with the stretcher. Rolling her sleeves, she sets to work preparing the private for his procedure. When she’s done, Phryne looks down at the ashen, youthful face, and smiles widely, with most of her teeth on display. He’s in too much pain to notice the kindly-meant deception. 

“See you on the other side, Private.”

She watches as the orderlies take him away. After a while, Sister Steele comes over and places a comforting hand on her shoulder.

They wait.

* * *

When next she sees him conscious - following two shifts of ambulance duty and a night of decent sleep on her part - he looks much improved. There’s colour in his cheeks, and his eyes are clear, no signs of fever, or infection. He smiles when she enters the ward and makes her way over to him.

“I’ve received a letter from my brother today,” he says in greeting when she sits in the chair across from him. “He knows about my injury, but not about my recent weight loss… I’m yet to write to him… In any case, he enclosed some of his wife’s biscuits in his parcel. Do you want to try one? You won’t regret it!”

Not waiting for her answer, he reaches inside the haphazardly wrapped package and produces a small metal tin. A letter with the most horrendous hand she’s ever seen peeks out of the box.

“Is this the letter?” she asks in interest when he passes her a perfectly round oatmeal biscuit. “Your brother must have felt the harsh hand of education quite often during his school days!”

Private Robinson looks down at the piece of paper and smiles sheepishly.

“Oh, yes, he became quite intimately acquainted with Mrs Sheen’s ruler,” he confesses, picking a biscuit for himself. “That is - until our mother put a stop to it.”

Phryne smiles and takes a bite, moaning appreciatively. He was right, she does not regret the kind offer.

The private’s eyes light up at the sound.

“Good, aren’t they?” he asks, not really expecting an answer in return. “In any case, it didn’t work. I think he never improved his hand on purpose.” 

She laughs, her mouth full of crumbs. Oh, if mother could see her now!

“Stubborn, is he?”

“Like a mule,” Private Robinson says affectionately, eyes misting over. Phryne watches with a sinking feeling in her stomach as his expression changes, becoming less easy, more sombre. He twists the half-eaten biscuit between his fingers.

“I…followed him to war, you know,” he confesses after a few seconds of silence, “just as I had followed him into the academy. Mother wept for days.”

Phryne reaches for one of his hands in a now all too familiar gesture.

“Are you a copper, David?” she asks lightly, seeking to change the direction of the conversation. Gloominess - no matter how slight - isn’t beneficial to recovering from an amputation, after all.

“A constable,” he confirms. “But that’s about to change, I suppose.”

She shakes her head and presses his fingers.

“Don’t think about it now,” she urges him and nods towards the forgotten letter. “Would you like to read it to me?”

This seems to pull him out of this sudden dark mood, and he raises his eyes at her, looking surprised.

“Do you want me to?”

She nods, letting go of his hand and reclining in her seat, her arms folding of their own accord.

“I do! That is - if you can read it at all.”

He laughs, and it’s deep and healthy and genuine. She can’t help but join in.

“Oh, I’ve had  _ years _ of experience; trust me!”

“Well, go on, then.”

Private Robinson clears his throat and shakes the letter straight, smoothing the mud-smidgen edges. She notices his fingers trembling a little over the words.

“ _ Dear Davey _ ,” he begins, his voice catching just a little, “ _ I know you were desperate for a few days away from the trenches, but your method of obtaining them seems a tad drastic. Whatever happened to the good old option of VD? I trust you’re making the most of your holiday…” _

Phryne laughs.

* * *

“Do you have a sweetheart waiting at home?”

Private Robinson tilts his head and narrows his eyes. The cup of tea in his hands is sweet and hot.

“No,” he says after a while. “Do you?”

She brings her own tea to her lips and blows on the scalding hot beverage.

“No.”

He sighs and takes a tentative sip. She makes a face at his evident joy at drinking lava.

“What a sad pair we make,” he laments dramatically.

Phryne frowns and stares into her cup. She never thought of herself as sad or miserable. At least, not in this regard.

“Do you really think so?” she asks, genuinely curious.

He shrugs, smiling slightly.

“Who knows? Probably not.”

Now it’s time for her to narrow her eyes at him.

“You’re in a funny mood today, Private David James Robinson.”

He groans – laughing softly – at the use of his full name and places his tea on the rickety little nightstand by his bed.

“I’m sorry,” he confesses, his eyes clear and kind. “The truth is, I’m getting rather restless, just lying around all day.”

Phryne frowns again and taps on the side of her enamel cup with one impatient finger. Yes, she can see how he would become fidgety. From what she saw of his anatomy, she can tell that the private is a man used to physical exertion. Lying in bed for days could hardly improve his emotional well-being. She places her untouched cup of tea next to his and looks down at him, using her best Stern Nurse look.

“If I bring you a crutch, will you promise to not over-exert yourself?”

His eyes light up like a child’s at Christmas. He pulls himself upwards from a reclining position and salutes rather pompously.

“I solemnly swear, Sister Fisher!”

Laughing, she goes to find him a crutch.

* * *

A couple of days later, she finds him in the hastily assembled church.

She’s walking past the rickety, usually vacant, structure when a sound – almost foreign, nearly forgotten, but still achingly familiar – stops her in her tracks. It’s muffled by the wooden doors, muted, and distorted, but it still jolts her to the very core. Phryne recognises it immediately; it’s music, masterfully extracted from the old, slightly off-tune piano that serves the over-enthusiastic Chaplin. But there are no Cherubim of Seraphim or weeping virgins in these notes, no hymns, no praise of God. Instead, there’s sunlight; if she closes her eyes, she can see the gold undertones, can taste honey. There’s something perversely positive, obscenely uplifting about the tune amid the slaughter around them, and she feels easy and weightless for the first time in months.

It’s been a long day, and she should really head back to her barracks for a proper wash and solid sleep, but her feet seem to have other ideas. She’s mounting the three shallow steps before she knows it; pushing the door open almost soundlessly, she leans against the doorjamb, and breathes in.

He’s sitting at the piano, completely oblivious to her presence, the crutch she obtained for him propped against the wall. She closes her eyes and lets the music wash over her. Now that she’s inside the building, she can pinpoint the piece properly – Mozart, Sonata no’ 16, first movement.

Her heart clenches, her abdomen flips; the music reverberates inside her chest, seeps into her bones, rushes into her bloodstream. Her eyes are burning with the hint of tears. She’s never heard it played so exquisitely before.

The movement reaches its coda, and Private Robinson’s hands still over the keys. Phryne clears her throat and blinks rapidly

“You know, this may well be considered an act of treason,” she says in lieu of a greeting, smirking with more force than feeling. “Something by Purcell would have been more patriotic.”

He turns to her without taking his fingers off the keys and gives her a rather amused smile that speaks volumes.

“What does music care for the affairs of men, Sister Fisher?” he cries over a now spirited rendition of  _ Rondo Alla Turca _ and Phryne laughs despite the lump in her throat.

“Quite true,” she agrees and pushes off the doorjamb.

The Rondo skips and morphs into Beethoven’s Fifth, and the entire church seems to shake with the force of the music. Powerful, unyielding, it engulfs the small building entirely and swallows it whole. There’s very little sunlight here - no gold, no honey – just fate and injustice, coming to knock on the proverbial door.

Phryne sits down at the first pew and looks at the private. His lean, tall form moves with every new note his fingers take, the line of his back as fluid as the melody they invoke. The music thunders in her chest again, rattles her ribcage, floods her lungs, and she finds herself thinking – for a mortifyingly practical split second – how lucky it is that the limb the young man sacrificed was his left shin and not one of his golden hands.

The mere thought makes her breathless with guilt.

“Did you come here to find solace in God?” she asks him loudly enough to rise over the music and drown the blameworthy little reflection. Private Robinson stops playing and half-turns to her in his seat.

“I came here for the piano, Sister,” he smiles.

“Not a believer, then?”

“I never said that,” he deflects cryptically. “What about you?”

“I prefer sinning,” she grins, her teeth gleaming in the dusk of the stuffy church. She’s not had a word with God since Janey disappeared.

Private Robinson’s smile stays as pleasant as ever.

“Well, they do say that to err is human, after all,” he shrugs good-naturedly.

Phryne scoffs and leans back in her seat, her legs crossing at the knee.

“You’re infuriatingly knowledgeable, do you know that?”

Private Robinson laughs and something shifts deep in her belly at the sound. It’s deeper than his speaking voice, and somewhat older.

“You can thank my brother for it, I suppose,” he provides and Phryne’s curiosity piques; the distinguished brother strikes again. “He’s a bibliophile of the worst order, always has been - used to read all the books he could lay his hands on, no matter the topic. And, well, I seem to have picked up the habit.”

“It’s a good habit to pick up,” she smiles, and, to her mild astonishment, he colours. She’s never seen him flush with anything but fever before. She decides that it suits him. “Who taught you how to play? A kind neighbour or, perhaps, a strict schoolmaster?”

He shakes his head, smiling.

“Neither. It was my mother.”

“Mrs Robinson sounds exceedingly accomplished!”

The private turns back towards the piano and strokes a few random chords.

“She is,” he answers with some finality. “Anything I can play for you, Sister Fisher?”

Phryne can recognise an off-limits topic when she hears one. She has no intentions of prying.

“Play us some Chopin then, Ludwig!” she cries pompously, waving her hand in a commanding manner.

Private Robinson throws his head back and laughs.

“Ludwig?!”

Phryne nods, her face a mask of mock-seriousness.

“You’re in dire need of a nickname, Private Robinson,” she explains with great solemnity, her fist supporting her chin. “Ludwig it is.”

The young man cracks his knuckles and sighs satisfyingly. “Well, as long as it isn’t ‘Robo’….”

He plays nocturnes until it’s time for Vespers.

* * *

“I wasn’t entirely honest about the whole sweetheart thing,” he admits to her a few days later during his morning check-up.

Phryne glances up from the stump and finds him studying her rather sheepishly. She bends to rebandage the healing cut, smiling secretly.

“Oh?” she inquires, her voice unnaturally high.

“Nancy Rogers,” he sighs a little in a way she finds remarkably endearing. “Lives across the street from us, pretty as one of my brother’s orchids.”

Phryne adds ‘gifted gardener’ to the ever-expanding mental list of Lance-Corporal Robinson’s many accomplishments.

“And?” she prompts the younger brother delicately.

“And nothing,” he shrugs, fiddling with a crumpled piece of paper she only now notices he’s clutching in his hands. “I asked her to the Firemen and Policemen’s Ball and then the war happened. In any case,” he looks up at her, smiling ruefully, “I doubt anything will come of it now.”

Phryne pulls herself to her full height and crosses her arms over her chest rather sternly.

“Shin or no shin, you’re a catch, Private Ludwig. Nancy Rogers couldn’t do better!” When this doesn’t get the reaction she’s aiming for, she squints at him speculatively and pulls up a chair.

“Right, out with it,” she commands in her no-nonsense voice. “This is about more than Nancy Rogers, isn’t it? What’s causing this, David?”

The use of his given name shakes him out of his stupor a little and he glances up at her with hazy eyes and waves the crumpled piece of paper in the air like a torn white flag.

“News from home?” she asks softly.

He shakes his head and stares at the letter. Phryne gets the odd impression he hopes to stare it to destruction.

“My brother,” he says at last, and she feels her insides turn to ice. She’s gotten so used to the ever-present phantom of the mysterious older brother over the past few weeks that it almost feels as if he’s an old acquaintance that has always been there. She hopes nothing bad has happened.

“Is – Is he…?”

Private Robinson blanches at her timid question, and shakes his head frantically.

“No! No - God, no! Nothing of that sort!” he reassures her, and – oddly enough – Phryne feels as if a dead weight has been lifted off her chest. She wonders if she should feel a little silly at the sentiment.

“Then -?” she asks once she’s composed herself.

“It’s an answer to my letter; you know, the one I wrote to him after the procedure,” the private explains wanly, smoothing the crumpled letter over his blanket-covered thigh. “He’s taking it harder than I have.” At her puzzled look, he adds, as an explanation, “he blames himself.”

Phryne doesn’t know whether to add ‘self-centred prick’ or ‘noble to a fault’ to her list.

“Why? Was he the one to shoot at you?”

He groans and shakes his head, clearly exasperated; but whether with her, himself, or the shadow of his older brother, Phryne cannot tell.

“Well, if you ask him, he as good as did!” he scoffs. “He blames himself because he believes that I only enlisted because he had.”

Phryne studies him silently.

“And did you?” she asks at last.

He shrugs.

“Honestly? I don’t know. I might have.”

She looks at the wrinkled letter and notices that the horrendous hand appears to be even more illegible than in the previous one; Lance-Corporal Robinson’s fingers must have trembled when he applied himself to pen and paper.

“Do you regret it?” she asks before she can stop herself. It’s a question that sits heavy in her belly and burns her gullet; like rising bile, or a too-heavy meal.

He shakes his head and levels his gaze at her. His eyes are clear.

“I make it a point never to regret my decisions once I’ve made them. It’s not in my nature to be melancholy.” 

Well, he’s not wrong there.

“But it is in your brother’s?”

“Sometimes. This last year, it… he sounds different in his letters. More… sombre.”

Phryne blinks and looks away. Her eyes ache with unwanted moistness. She suspects that she and Lance-Corporal Robinson may have more in common than she previously thought.

“War will do that to you,” she says quietly, her blunt fingernails digging into her arm.

“I never regret my own decisions, Sister Fisher,” the private says after a while, his voice sounding years older than its owner, “but I do regret his.”

They sit in pensive silence.

* * *

“I’m being discharged.”

Phryne looks up from her tea and stares into his clear blue eyes.

“What?” she asks weakly, bringing the steaming cup to her lips; she needs to keep her mouth busy.

“Major Terrence declared me fit enough to travel,” he explains softly. “I’m being sent back home.”

The sip of tea she just took barely makes it down her throat.

“That’s…that’s wonderful news, Ludwig!” she manages, and he smiles a little wearily.

“Is it?”

This uncharacteristic reaction from him riles her up a little and restores her equilibrium.

“I thought melancholy wasn’t in your nature,” she goads him almost acerbically, but he just rolls his eyes.

“I’m just being practical.”

“No, you’re not,” she says, shaking her head almost vehemently. “You’re feeling sorry for yourself. You think you’re about to become a burden on your parents, a disappointment to your angelic, miraculous brother, and unfit for female company. Am I getting close, Ludwig?”

He stares at her with wide eyes and an even wider mouth. For a fraction of a second she fears she may have gone too far, may have pushed him too hard – allowed her words to cut deeper than the surgeon’s knife – but then he starts laughing, and it’s true and deep, rising from the pit of his belly and rocking the sickbay to its very foundations.

“Got it in one, Sister Fisher,” he chuckles, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes.

“Do you really think your mother would prefer a dead son over a slightly altered one?” she asks when he stops laughing. “Do you think your brother would? Or, for that matter, Nancy Rogers?”

Private Robinson looks at her fondly, shakes his head and mouths a silent ‘ _ No’ _ . It takes her a few moments to realise that his eyes are moist with more than laughter.

“But I am out of a job, Sister,” he nods sadly, the smile on his face turning resigned, “And I… I don’t want to leave him here, alone…”

Phryne understands. By God, how well she understands.

She reaches for his hands and grasps them a little tighter than she intended.

“I can’t promise you he’ll be fine; you’ll have to turn to a higher power for that sort of reassurance – ”

“– you mean Major Terrence?”

Phryne laughs almost hysterically.

“Don’t be such a cheeky sod, Ludwig,” she admonishes him, but her wide smile belies her rebuke. “You know what I mean.”

He nods almost sagely and squeezes her fingers in response. “I do.”

“But I can offer some advice on the job front, at the very least,” she proposes. “You have two capable hands, and one dominant leg. I suggest you put them to good use and teach the masses the joy of piano playing. I suspect you’ll have quite the eager crowd on your hands.”

Private Robinson frowns and narrows his eyes at a faraway spot in the distance, somewhere to the left of Phryne’s ear.

“That’s…not a bad idea.”

She smiles a little smugly.

“I know it isn’t. And that’s only a smidgen of my utter brilliance, you know.”

He laughs again, and she joins him. Their hands stay clasped between them.

“You saved my life, you know,” he says after a while, when the laughter has been put to rest. Phryne shakes her head.

“No, I didn’t; I – ”

“Yes, you did. And I will miss you. Quite terribly, I suspect.”

She smiles at him, almost tremulously.

“And I, you.” 

The answer is quiet, soft, but he hears it, nonetheless. And this time, she lets him see her tears.


	2. Melbourne, August 1929, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so apparently I can't keep my mind shut, so this is now a three-chapter fic.  
> Go on, tell me you're surprised...
> 
> No poetic smut in this one, pardon, but I promise you'll get it in chapter three!
> 
> All my undying gratitude to Aurora_Australis, who suffers for my *ahhhm* art.

**Melbourne, August 1929, Part I**

She’s finally managed to lure him into bed.

Granted, the bed was his, and the luring was entirely mutual, but the result was beyond satisfactory, so she tries not to over-dwell on the details. Not when they’re finally,  _ finally _ , here.

He’s a remarkable lover, despite his claims to being ‘woefully out of practice’. There’s confidence in his touch that she finds exceedingly attractive – an assuredness that seeps from his fingertips right into her heated skin. He moves with such intensity that, at first, she finds herself uncommonly breathless; the look in his eyes as he drives into her is profound and bottomless and full of honest truths.

It’s a heady sensation, to be the sole recipient of his undivided focus; to have him die in her lap and be buried in her eyes. She falls and soars at the slide of his hips, shakes and breaks at the glide of his fingers, sighs and cries at the touch of his lips – Jack Robinson does nothing by halves.

It seems to her that he approaches matters of the boudoir as he does most things in life, with shrewd contemplation and a healthy dose of a detective’s attention to details. Every sigh, every shudder, every broken moan – all set aside as evidence, to be filed, to be considered, to be evoked at the needed moment; all instrumental in uncovering the truth. She’s not surprised, of course – there have been clues to such prowess along the way; crumbs of carnal information to be gathered by the right connoisseur.

And Phryne Fisher is nothing if not a keen collector. 

The night spent in his embrace ended far too swiftly for her liking, and dawn came demanding a discreet parting. Sweet, hasty kisses at the slightly open front door, hushed giggles and softly spoken endearments, the brush of a few fingers across heated skin; all nice – all  _ very _ nice and good and exciting – but not nearly enough.

So she plans to surprise him tonight and no amount of noisy and disapproving neighbours will stop her. There are weapons in her arsenal that not even serious Detective Inspectors can withstand; a lethal dress with very little worn underneath, an expensive bottle of French wine – she’s on the path to seduction, with no survivors in mind.

At five minutes to nine, Phryne corrects the angle of her cloche and taps her knuckles on Jack’s forest green front door. It takes him a few minutes to answer – enough time for her to start second-guessing her impulsive plan – but when he does, she thanks her lucky stars that she was rash enough to show up uninvited at his door.

He’s in his shirtsleeves, hair a little mussed, tie a little loosened; there’s an air of unassumed relaxation about him that she’s unused to but welcomes wholeheartedly, nonetheless. It suits him – this ease, this leisure; she longs to run her fingers through the slackened waves of his hair.

The look on his face when he sees her at his door is surprised and delighted in equal measure. Clearly, he did not expect her swift return to his hearth and home, but from the way his eyes light up at the sight of her, Phryne can tell that he doesn’t mind the intrusion in the slightest.

“Miss Fisher,” he rumbles, the corners of his mouth twisting in his barely-there smile. His eyes travel appreciatively down her body, stopping only to inspect the expensive bottle of wine in her hands; Phryne twists it in his direction, displaying the label with great pomp.

“Hello, Jack,” she purrs, squeezing past him. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

He catches her wrist in his hand and pulls her close to him, his lips brushing hers softly and briefly.

“I have some company,” he sighs against her mouth and squeezes her fingers, “But you’re not intruding. In fact,” he takes a step backwards and she realises that he’s smiling – openly, widely; and, good God, ‘tis quite the sight, “I’d like to introduce you if you’ve no objections?”

Her eyes stray to the pegs on the wall in front of her – dark reddish-brown wood against the soft cream of the respectable wallpaper – and sure enough, there’s a tweed flat cap and a heavy jacket hanging next to the familiar fedora and grey coat. So, said company is of the gentlemanly persuasion; how intriguing.

Phryne shrugs off her wrap and doffs her hat, preening a little at the look of pure adoration on Jack’s face. After all, even a woman who dresses solely for herself enjoys the avid attention her outfits evoke - especially from a man as reserved as Jack Robinson.

“Lead the way, Inspector,” she prompts, handing him the outer garments and the bottle of wine.

Jack hangs her things on the free pegs and turns to guide her to the parlour, his free hand coming to rest discreetly on her lower back. Phryne finds herself leaning into the warmth of his large palm, her muscles shifting beneath her skin. She can feel his fingertips flexing against the silk of her dress and something tightens deep in the pit of her stomach.

Jack’s parlour is warm and somewhat dimly lit; the strong fire in the hearth and a couple of table lamps the sole sources of light in the elegant, slightly dated room. There’s intimacy in the soft luminescence, a familiarity that sits comfortably behind Phryne’s ribs. This is a room that speaks of its master, and she finds herself an eager listener.

She’d seen the room before, but there’s something in the way it is presented to her tonight that casts it in a new light. Her eyes glide over the simple floral wallpaper, its gold-green colours darkening under the gentle glow of the room. It’s a sensible design – modest and just shy of austere – and, like the rest of the house, would have been quite fashionable a decade or two ago.

The furniture in the parlour is mostly functional. There are two large bookcases occupying the walls, laden with many tomes on various topics, two comfortable-looking armchairs and a chase; a small, modest bureau of reddish wood in one corner. The only thing that appears to be recreational in this rather practical environment is a lovely pre-war standing Bechstein piano, its golden-brown colour and ornate brass candle-holders complementing the wallpaper beautifully. 

She can see him there, in her mind’s eye, sitting solidly at the instrument, playing soft jazz or a lively, intricate baroque piece, his long fingers caressing the keys like they did her body just the night before. The thought makes her blood simmer rather pleasantly.

The press of Jack’s hand on her back pulls her from her musings on interior design and piano-playing inspectors. She turns to regard him warmly. 

“Miss Fisher,” he says, smiling softly, voice mellow and deep, “I’d like you to meet my brother – ”

His hand moves forward, palm open and inviting, drawing her gaze. It takes her a moment to notice the gentleman sitting so casually in the armchair closest to the fire, but when she does - for a second, for a precious moment - her heart stutters and stops.

His curls are tamed by a thick layer of pomade and the cheekbones are sharper with age, but she’d recognise the face anywhere. Tall, lean, exceptionally handsome. And very much alive and well.

When she made her secret plan to surprise her stoic inspector, she had no idea that she’d start the evening by stumbling back into France.

“Ludwig.. _. _ ”

Behind her, she hears her gasp echoed incredulously, and she wheels around, wide-eyed and breathless, and stares straight into the bewildered face of Lance-Corporal Robinson.

“Phryne?” he asks, concerned.

The sound of heavy shelling in her ears is close to deafening, the distant cries of the wounded overpower her logic. She can smell the rot and mud and blood - 

Lance-Corporal -  _ Detective Inspector _ \- Jack Robinson. The spectre older brother, with his gardening and his library and his wry sense of humour, is regarding her now with genuine worry etched all over his handsome face.

He’s here –  _ here! _ –

She read his letters, saw his horrible hand, got a first-hand account of his stubbornness; she knows him –  _ she knows him _ – and the thought makes her breathless, takes her out of kilter.

Phryne mentally strikes the ‘self-centred prick’ option off the long-dormant list of the Lance-Corporal's many accomplishments.

His hands come to rest on her upper arms and slide down to her elbows. There’s no sign of the expensive French wine she’s brought with her in a smug attempt at seduction; he must have placed it somewhere out of reach.

A drink appears in her peripheral vision, and she lifts her eyes to the face of the young soldier she had left somewhere in France. 

He doesn’t say a thing, just smiles weakly and presses the whisky into her hand. His face is pale, he’s leaning heavily on his cane – to him, she’s no less of a ghost than he is to her.

Phryne downs the contents of the glass in one and splutters.

But this simply will not do.

She bids her aristocratic blood to rise to the challenge; calls on the artificially cultivated etiquette and breeding to break through. With great thespian prowess, she passes the empty glass to Jack without looking and takes David’s free hand between her own, the gesture still so achingly familiar, even after all this time.

“Ludwig,” she says again, her voice a little stronger, smile a little steadier. His eyes crinkle nicely with his own reflection of the gesture.

This close, she can smell the faint scent of his pomade - beeswax and coconut oil - so very different from that of his brother. There are other changes, of course; the nose a little more pronounced, the hair just a shade darker - but the eyes are the same; blue and clear and hauntingly familiar. 

“I take it you two know each other?” comes the dry inquiry from behind, halting all melancholy musings. Phryne’s heart starts thumping erratically. She desperately hopes the term ‘old friends’ isn’t about to enter the conversation.

“You could say that,” David says, and looks over her shoulder at his older brother. His hand trembles between her clammy palms. “Jack…this is Sister Fisher.”

Phryne turns to mark the reaction on Jack’s face. Shocked, resigned - his physiognomy is a masterclass in pantomime, a plethora of emotions that shifts too fast for her to follow. She tries to ground herself in the familiarity of his features, tries to hold on to the recognizable terrain of his collected expressions, but the topography seems to change too swiftly for safe purchase, and she finds herself on the verge of slipping. 

“Of course she is,” he says, softly, when his expression finally settles and the emotions sink in. 

His eyes are warm and knowing; full of understanding and perception. She finds that she can’t look at him - can’t bare the turmoil inside her soul to his piercing gaze - and yet, she cannot help but keep mentally comparing his face, his form, to that of his brother. How close in age, in height, in build they are, how alike in features - tall, lean, exceptionally handsome - no one could ever doubt what they are to each other. 

“No introductions needed, then,” Jack tries to joke and gestures towards the armchairs. “I think this calls for a much-needed drink.”

“Open the French wine, Inspector,” Phryne says, trying to sound imperious and missing by a few leaps and stumbles. And then, a tad more wistfully, “It’s only fitting.”

She takes the chaise as David reclaims his armchair, and Jack brings forth the expensive bottle and three empty wine glasses. She notes with interest that his hand shakes slightly as he pours and wonders just how affected he is by this entire ordeal. Is he as overwhelmed as she is? As shocked by the realisation that they had been a part of each other’s lives - in some way - years before she strolled into his crime scene? The mere thought is enough to set her heart pounding again.

They toast the meeting and drink deeply, the two men making appreciative noises at the wine’s quality and taste. There’s a sudden stillness between the three of them - not particularly awkward, but not easy either - as if they each must first resettle in his or her respective skins. Phryne takes the pause to continue her mental cataloguing of both Robinson men - gestures, mannerisms, little expressions that they may share. Her eyes caress the features of the one, then reacquaint herself with those of the other, and the nearly empty glass trembles a little in her hand. Jack reaches over and takes it from her.

“Another, Miss Fisher?” he asks, his voice grounding and sure. 

She nods, noticing with a little jolt that his and David’s glasses are still on the fuller side. 

“Something stronger, perhaps?” 

Phryne tries for buoyancy.

“And miss sampling more of this divine wine? Not on your life, Inspector! Keep ‘em coming!”

Jack’s lips twitch in a knowing smile. By now, he knows every single one of her deflection tactics, she’s sure of it. Oddly enough, this doesn’t seem to bother her half as much as it should.

He pours her another glass of wine and settles on the chaise, next to her, their knees touching. Phryne grips the drink with a little more force than needed.

David breaks the slightly tense atmosphere with a short clearing of his throat.

“So, you’re Jackie’s famous Miss Fisher?” he asks, smiling at her over the rim of his glass. Next to her, Phryne notices Jack blanching slightly.

She files the reaction under ‘things to mercilessly tease him about in the future’, along with  _ ‘Jackie’. _

“Famous, am I?” she asks, with only partly false cheer, and winks at the poor policeman.

Jack coughs and takes a steading sip of wine.

“Infamous, more like,” he counters and raises his eyebrows at her, and her heart drops a few pounds. What is it about this man, that makes her feel unburdened? 

“I do like the sound of that,” she simpers, her eyes shining.

This banter, this back-and-forth with Jack - it’s something she knows well, something oddly grounding. This, she can do, this is familiar; an anchor in a storm she wasn’t prepared to face. 

Phryne Fisher doesn’t need to be rescued - she can always take care of herself - but the knowledge of an existing ‘rescue party’, if ever one is needed, is somewhat soothing, nonetheless.

With this boost to her confidence, she turns to David, who’s been eyeing the whole exchange with an eerily familiar smile on his face.

“You look so well,” she gushes, a little breathlessly; after all, it’s not every day that a combat nurse gets to see one of her charges in some other form than a bloody flashback. “Heavens, Ludwig… how have you been?”

He throws his head back and laughs - and it’s as breathless as her voice, and just as relieved - but above all else, it’s vibrant and full of life. Her chest tightens with the oddly endearing sound. She chances a glance at Jack, but his eyes are glued to his brother’s laughing face, and there’s moisture in their corners. 

“I’ve been recently fitted with a new prosthetic,” David says, at last, still grinning, and taps his left shin. The false limb produces a muted ‘thump’. “This one’s really good. Doesn’t pinch as much as the previous one did.” 

“And Nancy Rogers?” she asks eagerly, pulling the girl’s name out of her memory easily enough. “Did she come through, Ludwig?”

Jack huffs and takes another sip of wine, David rolls his eyes at him but sends Phryne a rather self-deprecating smile, and she finds herself wondering if all Robinsons share this particular trait.

“Ah, no, no,” he chuckles and shakes his head. “One look at the empty trouser leg and she excused herself, sobbing. She needed a partner who would take her out dancing, and my dancing days were somewhat behind me.” 

Before Phryne has even the slightest chance to cluck sympathetically and offer a few colourful choice words about Nancy Rogers’ character, Jack chimes in with a scoff.

“Good riddance to Miss Rogers,” he mutters darkly and takes a finishing sip of wine, leaving no doubt whatsoever as to his opinion of the woman. “Otherwise you’d have never met Sarah.” 

David’s smile turns almost bashful.

Interesting...

“Well,” he murmurs, gently, and swirls the remaining wine in his glass. “That’s true.”

“Who’s Sarah?” Phryne cries, no longer able to contain her curiosity. Jack regards her and her outburst fondly.

“His wife,” he says softly. 

Her breath stutters, her heart stumbles; she looks at David with moist eyes.

“I suppose I owe that to you, as well,” he says simply, and the look he levels at her is full of ancient history. “If it weren’t for your ‘job advice’, as you so aptly called it, I probably wouldn’t have started teaching, and wouldn’t have taken on her five-year-old son as a student. She was a war widow, she understood. We fell in love over years of wince-inducing scales-practices.” He laughs and reaches into his suit jacket, and produces a photograph. He leans over, passing it to her. 

A beautiful woman, heavy with child, sits in the centre of the photograph, flanked by a boy no older than twelve, and David, standing tall with one hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“That’s Leo,” he says, and his voice catches a little. “He’s eleven now. Wonderful lad. He was born after his father was killed. Sarah had to raise him on her own.”

Phryne’s eyes stray to the woman - Sarah - and the swell of her belly. She looks up to find David smiling at her.

“Any day now, the midwife says,” he answers her unasked question. “The photograph was taken a fortnight ago.” 

“They’re beautiful, Ludwig,” she says softly, and hands him back the image of his happy family. He places it back in his suit jacket with all the appropriate reverence. 

Phryne steals a glance at Jack, only to find him studying her knowingly. He blinks at her, slowly and familiarly, noting the dampness of her eyes and the slight shaking of her hands, and nods once in understanding.

“I must ask,” he asks loudly, voice uncharacteristically jovial. “Why ‘Ludwig’?”

This man -  _ this man  _ \- who always does the right thing, no matter what he claims.

David laughs, and the contemplative mood cracks, much to Phryne’s relief. 

“I found him committing an act of treason in the rickety church at the field hospital,” she provides vaguely, her voice trembling just a smidge.

Jack frowns and David rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“I was playing Mozart,” he explains with a smile, and Jack hums and nods.

“Ah, yes,” he agrees, placing his now empty glass on the small table between them. “That should do it.”

“Which, in turn, morphed into Beethoven,” David continues, and takes a sip of his own forgotten drink.

“Worse, so much worse,” Jack laments, playing along, and turns to Phryne. “How did you not report him?”

“Oh, I thought about it,” she fibs, her eyes soft, “but then he offered to play something for me - ”

“You asked for Chopin,” David sighs, and she nods.

“So I did,” she agrees, quietly, and finds herself back at that Godawful church, with its dreadful acoustics. “You played nocturnes until the priest shuffled in.” 

David nods, his gaze sharp with the memory.

“Jack,” he queries, not taking his eyes off her, “mind if I abuse your Bechstein a little?”

There’s an intake of breath beside her, and then, “go ahead, mate,” and David rises to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. He makes his way to the piano and lowers himself onto the bench with exceptional grace. The crack of his knuckles sounds loud in the sudden silence.

The smooth, melancholic notes of  _ Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp Minor  _ wash the last thirteen years off her skin and seep deep into her bones and veins and sinews. She closes her eyes, and sees his back, swaying with the music over the small, out-of-tune piano, his striped pyjamas too big for his lithe form. She can smell the musty scent of rotting wood, and mothballs, can feel the damp of the small church, and taste the stale biscuits served at the nurses’ canteen. The air is heavy with the rusty tinge of blood, and disinfectant, and -

“Phryne.”

The soft rasp of Jack’s voice brings her back to Melbourne. There’s pressure on her arm, and she looks down to find him pressing his handkerchief into her palm. She didn’t even realise that she’s been crying.

“I’m sorry,” she apologises, not knowing what exactly she’s apologising for, and dabs at her eyes with the soft cotton cloth. 

“Don’t be silly,” the words are whispered against the nape of her neck; she feels the press of his lips on her skin, and shudders. 

Sister Fisher and Lance Corporal Robinson, thirteen years later and no miles apart.

The piece comes to a masterful end, and they both clap a little over-enthusiastically. David turns to them on the bench and raises a knowing eyebrow. It seems that no one is to be fooled tonight.

“Miss Fisher,“ he begins, but she shakes his head.

“Phryne,” she insists fiercely. “Your brother is as stubborn as a mule, so I don’t stress the issue with him, but I’ll hear nothing but ‘Phryne’ from you, David.” 

He chuckles fondly and sends his suffering older brother a look that clearly means ‘good luck, mate’, over her shoulder. On her lower back, she feels the reassuring weight of said brother’s hand. 

“Very well, Phryne,” David agrees, trying her name on his vocal cords and smiling at the foreign sound. “I must head back now; I left Sarah and Leo with our parents and rescue might be in order, but would you please consider joining our family supper on Friday? I’m sure our mother would be thrilled to make your acquaintance.” 

“Well…” she falters, unsure; making plans for meeting more Robinsons seems a little out of her comfort zone at the moment. 

The hand at the small of her back presses into her reassuringly, the thumb sweeping at the fabric of her dress. Phryne leans into the palm and takes courage by the horns. 

“I’d be delighted to join you,” she says, smiling brightly enough to light up half of Melbourne.

She hears Jack’s soft exhale behind her, sees the relief in David’s eyes, and can’t regret her decision. 

They see David to the door and linger on the doorstep for a few good minutes. Phryne embraces him tightly and kisses his cheek, still trying to reconcile the image of him as a soldier with the one she sees before her now.

She watches him disappear into the night; the  _ ‘click’  _ of his cane against the pavement fading with his steps, long after he’s said his goodbyes. 

  
  



	3. Melbourne, August 1929, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are.  
> Last chapter (really, I swear)!
> 
> My undying love and thanks to Aurora who is a gem and a queen.

**Melbourne, August 1929, Part II**

After David leaves, she becomes frantic – all wild kisses and scraping teeth, eager hands, and impatient cries. There’s a desperation to her touch, she knows it; one that wasn’t present the night before, the first time they had lain together – as if the world’s about to end, and this here is her last chance to have a man inside her.

Jack allows himself to be dragged to his bedroom, to be pushed onto the bed, to be ravaged thoroughly and fervently, his eyes impossibly dark and knowing.

Damn him,  _ damn him  _ – she thinks as she writhes and pants above him, their entwined fingers suspended in the space between them – damn him for seeing her for who she is. 

And damn her, for she - she can see him for who he was. 

Phryne shuts her eyes and bites her tongue, tastes the tinge of copper in her mouth - she can see him with perfect clarity, grim and muddy, the green of his uniform stained with blood and grime. Sitting in the trench, head leaning against the sandbags, he sucks on a cigarette - they all did, back then - and blows the smoke from his nostrils, blue eyes closed.

She frowns, and feels him - the Jack Robinson of the here and now - shifting beneath her, rising to meet her gaping mouth. His fingers crawl into her hair, snake around her waist; he knows -  _ he knows _ \- and tries to chase the Lance Corporal away.

“Here, Phryne,” he mutters against her lips, pulling her tight to his body. “You’re here.”

She opens her eyes and sees him, the man who returned from war and struggled with the remnants of battle; the gardener, the bibliophile, the noble bastard that he’s always been. Her fingers inch to his face and tremble as she traces the contours of his cheeks, as she maps out the highlights of his brows.

“ _ You’re _ here,” she gasps, memorising his face as it is now - familiar and known to her. She knows this man - she  _ knew  _ this man - now, and in past lives. Years, and years, and years. 

“I am,” he says simply, arm tightening around her waist, hips stuttering beneath her.

He loves her, she knows it. She feels it in his touch, sees it in his eyes, tastes it on his lips. But it comes as quite a shock to her - twisting above him, taking him deep into her body - to realise just how strongly his feelings are reciprocated, that she’s as far gone as he is, that she may well have been gone from the moment she saw his letter in a field hospital in France. 

Phryne Fisher doesn’t believe in fate, not really – except, perhaps, she does. And the thought shakes her from within, and straight to her core. 

She comes hard and rather unexpectedly, her eyes, voice and body desperate as she gasps his name into the tendons in his neck. Her muscles lock, knees digging into the hard mattress of his bed, the stiffness putting her in mind of a soldier’s cot, unyielding and solid. Shaking almost uncontrollably, she weaves her fingers into Jack’s hair, bares his throat to her lips, bites the salt off his skin. He spills inside her with a strangled groan, sounding almost in pain, as he shatters beneath her, hips jerking and fingers trembling. She feels wild - feral, even - as if the tempest in her heart has taken over her hands, her lips, her blood. As if it has consumed her mind and swallowed her whole. 

Well, perhaps it has. 

He sighs her name -  _ Phryne, Phryne, Phryne _ \- tightens his arms around her waist, and falls onto the mattress with her, still nestled deep between her thighs. His abdomen shifts beneath hers, rapid with his still laboured breath, pushing her - up and down, up and down - with every shift in the straining muscles. 

She raises her head to look at him; his parted lips, still moist with kisses, shape her name almost soundlessly. His hand rises to swipe the hair behind her ear. There’s tenderness in his eyes that clenches her belly and twists her innards. 

And for a moment - just for a split second - she can see him again; Lance Corporal Robinson, with his free locks and his rounder face, and his muted eyes, lying beneath a younger version of herself. 

The here and now Phryne shudders at the image and buries her face under her lover’s jaw, as his softened cock slips from her body. The gentle lethargy of the moment does nothing to chase the past away.

“Jack,” she gasps, against his neck, “Jack! You and I, we were only a few miles apart! So close to one another, so – ”

“I’m infinitely glad we did not meet in France, Phryne,” he interrupts her somewhat gruffly, taking her meaning perfectly, despite the slightly jumbled nature of her sentence. 

She stills, her body going rigid at his words; this is not the reaction she’d expected. 

He senses the sudden immobility of her body and presses a warm palm to her ribs, brushes his lips over her forehead. “Wait. Allow me to explain.”

“I think you had better,” she says, a little warily. 

Jack takes a deep breath, his fingers drumming up a soft rhythm against her slick skin.

“Phryne, had we met in France…” he hesitates, his voice hoarse and quiet. “I was married, I was coming back to a wanting home – meeting you amidst that carnage would have broken me completely.” 

Something loosens in her throat at his confession. 

“Would you have broken your vows?” she asks, with bated breath, almost fearful for what his answer might be.

He regards her with his usual intensity, focused solely on her, as if the world around them no longer matters. 

“No,” he confesses, his fingers trailing up and down her arms. “But I would have been sorely tempted.”

Her heart stutters and eases as her fingers move to smooth his forehead, brush his cheeks. Trust Jack Robinson to be constant, even in his past life. 

“A man of honour, who always does the right thing,” she sighs, looking at him with a great deal of respect. This man -  _ this man -  _ ‘a marriage is still a marriage’, indeed.

“Not always, Miss Fisher,” he echoes the words he uttered but two months ago, late at night in her foyer, in the aftermath of one of their more shocking cases. This time, however, he kisses her deeply, his palms running down her ribs and pressing into her bottom. 

Phryne pulls away, her hands still on his cheeks, her eyes shining.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Always.”

He looks at her with something akin to reverence - a look she’d find alarming on any other man - and offers her his trademark smile, the one that’s not quite there. She’s intimately acquainted with that smile - they’re old friends - and so she leans forward and kisses it hello in greeting, feeling it spread beneath her lips.

“Am I heavy, Jack?” she asks against his mouth, sighing a little at the feeling of his muscled thigh slipping between her legs and pressing upwards. 

Jack burrows further into his pillow, and tickles a path up her spine, smiling widely when she laughs breathlessly. 

“Not at all,” he rumbles. “Light as a feather.”

Phryne smiles, leans in to kiss him again. His lips are cool and soft beneath her mouth. 

“Light as the feather in my cap?” she asks playfully, watching his face with interest.

His expression softens, grows serious. He looks on the verge of saying something important. Her heart begins pounding fiercely.

“There’s nothing light about the feathers in your cap, Miss Fisher,” he mutters, his eyes tender. 

“Jack…” she breathes.

Sensing her rapid pulse against his chest, he smooths a calming palm over her back.

“You saved my brother’s life, Phryne,” he says simply, his voice faltering a little, growing hoarse. “How could I possibly - ”

“Honestly, Jack,” she interrupts him, chuckling to hide her nerves. “You give me too much credit.”

“No, I don’t,” he replies quietly, his eyes on her intense and knowing. “I give you just enough. So thank you, Sister Fisher, for making sure that my little brother lived. You’ve got a lot of things to account for.”

“Sounds suspiciously like an accusation, Inspector,” she tries to jest, to get back on firmer land and familiar ground. To regain her balance.

“More like commemoration,” he answers seriously, not taking his eyes off her face. 

“Jack,” she pleads, “really, there’s no need…”

“On the contrary,” he disagrees and cups her face in his large hands, “there’s every need. But I will stop, if it makes you uncomfortable. Just… just know that I… that I am eternally grateful.” 

She tries to blink the unwanted tears that spring to her eyes almost angrily, and he raises his head from the pillow to press first one kiss, then another to her fluttering eyelids. When he pulls away, his lips are stained with her eyelash paste. 

“Jack...” she begins, her voice breaking, but before she’s able to finish her thought, the shrill ring of the telephone cuts off her words and makes Jack roll his eyes.

“Just my luck,” he groans dramatically, no doubt for her benefit. “That would be the Station, calling to inform me of an inconvinient murder. Off you get, Miss Fisher. Duty - quite literally - calls!”

Jack wriggles from underneath her and rises from the bed, naked as the day he was born. With a heavy sigh, he makes his way out of the bedroom, muttering  _ ‘I’m coming, I’m coming, no need to shout’ _ under his breath all the way down the stairs.

Emotional stability somewhat restored, she chuckles to herself in relief and leans over the bed to grasp at Jack’s discarded jacket. With a quick, successful fumble down the pockets, she fishes out a checkered handkerchief, her fingers trailing over the masterfully embroidered initials  _ J.B.R  _ in one of the corners. She studiously avoids pondering the identity of the masterful hand behind the woven letters; surely she fell down enough rabbit holes for one night? 

Smirking fiendishly instead, she unfolds the clean cloth and presses it between her thighs, wiping any evidence of lovemaking away. Then - with slow, deliberate care - she folds it neatly again, and stuffs the handkerchief back into the jacket’s pocket, patting down the fabric for any creases. There.  _ That  _ should give him something to remember her by.

“Detective Inspector Robinson speaking,” she can hear his muted, deep rumble from below the stairs. Curiosity piqued, she slips out of bed and leans in the doorway; if this is indeed the station calling about a murder, she means to be ready. “Oh, hello, M - hang on, slow down - yes… yes, that’s right, she is - ” Phryne frowns and leans forward, angling her right ear towards the stairs. This doesn’t sound like the station... “ - oh..no, no - Mama, don’t cry - no, I know... “ 

She freezes. A little horrified at having intruded unknowingly on what appears to be an incredibly intimate moment, she draws back a little, while still remaining in the doorway. Something about this conversation - this tidbit of Jack’s past, his familial relationships - draws her and arrests her attention. Resting her head against the doorjamb, she closes her eyes and  _ listens _ . Jack’s voice is roughly soft, fraying at the edges, curling inwards; the strain in the tones evident even through layers of wood and stone. He’s obviously moved, perhaps even a little rattled, and not for the first time tonight, Phryne wonders if this outworldly evening has left him as overwhelmed as it has left her.

“Yes... I’ll ask her, I promise,” his voice pierces her musings, and she blinks, somewhat disoriented. “You should rest… some tea with brandy, yes… gute nacht, Mama.” 

She has enough time to compose herself before he’s bounding up the stairs, and appearing before her like Venus from the waves. The image is enough to cause a shift in her mood, and she smirks at the momentarily surprised look on his face, and folds her hands over her chest almost provocatively. His eyes - which were about to roll in fond exasperation but a second ago - drop to her hard nipples instead.

“Not the Station, then?” she asks in false innocence, her voice rising a little, and Jack’s lips twitch attractively. He mimics her pose, and leans into the doorjamb with his left shoulder, bringing their faces mere inches apart.

“Just my mother,” he explains, needlessly, his voice soft and hoarse and delectable. “She wanted me to let you know that David’s invitation to the family supper on Friday is fully endorsed. She also demands to know what your favourite dishes are,” he adds, amusedly, his eyes twinkling. “So that she may prepare them all and feed you to the end of days.” After a moment, he amends, “the last part, of course, is my professional interpretation.” 

She smiles a little tremulously. It seems that the apple, in Jack Robinson’s case, stayed as close to the tree as possible.

“Based on years of experience?” she asks with a little more aplomb than she feels, and trails her eyes down the lithe, muscular form of the man before her.

Jack chuckles good-naturedly. 

“Let us say that there’s a reason why I’d have qualified to ride for Australia. I’ve spent a lot of time on my pushbike to shake off my mother’s cooking,” he says, patting his flat abdomen. “Still do, really.” 

Phryne doesn’t ask how David keeps fit. Jack’s mirth is too precious to lose.

“Well, I’m ridiculously fond of potatoes,” she quips, but it falls a little flat.

Jack reaches for her, his large hands anchoring on her hips. Standing like this, barefooted and naked, she barely reaches his mid-chest. His taller frame curves a little as he stoops to kiss her, surely and slowly, and she closes her eyes and tries to lose herself in the feeling of lips on lips. 

Her own hands settle on his chest, and she shivers at the sharp gasp he emits into the kiss at the barest touch. Encouraged by the reaction, she allows her fingers to glide down his sides and belly to his hard hips, mapping out his skin like a zealous explorer. When her hand meets the puckered skin on his left hip, she pauses. The thin, spidery ropes of damaged tissue, send their roots all over his hip bone. Her fingers tremble over the remnants of war on his otherwise perfect body; this must have been a grievous injury indeed.

Her eyes squeeze shut with the sudden bile that rises up her throat at the thought of Jack Robinson injured.

How many miles separated them as he lay moaning in agony, twisting in pain? How many trenches between him and her ambulance?

How close was she to having another Robinson -  _ this  _ Robinson - under her care?

“Jack,” she murmurs against his mouth. “Do you believe in fate?”

He brushes her nose with his, kisses her brow, smooths the hair down her cheeks.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “Do you?”

“I don’t know,” she echoes, her eyelids fluttering at the brush of his soft lips. Her nose, her eyelashes, cheeks again; the sharp tinge of alcohol on his breath in her mouth. He still tastes of whisky and wine and war. 

She grips at his arms almost painfully and presses into him with enough desperation to make her feel uneasy. It’s not her style to be so untethered. 

“What is it, Phryne?” he asks softly in her ear, one of his hands trailing almost fleetingly down her spine, causing her to shiver. There’s no sexual intent behind his touch, only tender affection - a grounding berth, for the sake of them both.

But she’s unmoored, at sea, and there are stones in her pockets.

“What are the chances, Jack?” she demands of him, frantic and pleading in equal parts. “What are the chances that of all Australian soldiers, I’d get to patch one from Melbourne? And that that lovely boy would have an insufferably brilliant older brother who gardens and reads and appreciates good whisky and fucks like the world might end at any moment?” 

There’s fire in her lungs now, and in her heart, and in her eyes. She wants to pound on Jack’s chest until the breath runs from his body, straight into hers; to let that breath extinguish the conflagration in her bones. “Do you think this was meant to be? That this - between us - was always to be the outcome? That all our previous attempts at resistance were futile?” 

She’s spinning and sinking and holding all her rocks close to her chest, but Jack recognises the drowning for what it really is, and reaches for her hands.

“ _ I shall seize fate by the throat _ ,” he quotes, his voice low and steady, “ _ it shall certainly never wholly overcome me _ .”

Phryne frowns, her heart pounding. Trust Jack Robinson to have a ready quote for every occasion.

“Is that… Shakespeare?” she asks, unsure.

“No,” he smiles softly, eyes knowing. “Beethoven.”

And just like that, her pockets are empty again. 

“Jack,” she exhales, and tightens her fingers around his. He returns the squeeze readily.

“I’m not asking anything of you, Phryne. I would never - ” he pauses, bites his bottom lip, shakes his head. “Fate, or no fate, you and I enjoy uncovering the truth together, and that will never change. I promise you this; whatever else there is to be between us,  _ I shall make my heaven in it _ .” 

Ah, of course. There he is, good ol’ Will. 

“I’ll gladly provide the lady’s lap,” she simpers, happy to return to solid ground. 

But something changes in Jack’s face. There’s resignation in his eyes, and she suddenly finds herself breathless with the wait.

“I’m in love with you, Phryne,” he confesses simply, his heart as bare to her as his body is. “I’m sure you know that.”

She does, she does, she does - she knows, and her own heart thuds and beats with the knowledge and the fear and joy of it. 

“I do,” she nods, and takes a leap; fate or no fate, she’ll join his heaven. “But Jack… I don’t think you are alone in this predicament.” 

She looks up at him a little hesitantly - no walls, no clothes, no banter - and finds his eyes shining in the darkness of the room.

“No?” he asks mildly, but his hands in hers tremble with the question.

“No,” she breathes, and then yelps in surprise as he hoists her up in his arms and kisses her thoroughly and urgently. 

They do not bother with the covers - they barely bother with the bed. Her legs dangle off the mattress, his are still planted on the floor, knees burrowing into the wooden frame as he moves. There’s very little elegance in this coupling of theirs, very little nuisance or grace.

It’s a meeting of bodies - frantic and wild - a reunion of souls in a time of peace, with all the flesh memory of war. 

They fuck as if the world’s about to begin, and Jack laughs into her shoulder as one of his knees slips, knocking him into her with a breathless  _ ‘oof’ _ . She groans at the impact, but holds him close to her chest, the weight of his body grounding her in more than the moment. 

His fingers dance up her belly and down her ribs, and she squirms beneath him, chortling, until he rises up on his elbows, and moves within her again.

She cries as she comes, and stifles her moans against his arm, pressing her lips into his skin and tasting the salt of his sweat. He gathers her up in his arms, and buries his nose in her hair, and she feels the ‘ _ thump, thump, thump _ ’ of his heart beating wildly against her own, like synchronised war drums. 

And later, as they lie entwined, the evidence of their joining damp between her thighs, she closes her eyes and allows her mind to drift.

The muddy fields of France appear before her inward gaze in all their bleak glory, accompanied by the cacophony of battle. Shelling, bullets, the cries of the dying - they wash over her like shallow waves, touching her with soft fingers, taking pieces of her with them as they retreat back into the black sea of memory. He’s there, the only vibrant colour amidst the brown, with his blue eyes and his green army jacket, which morphs into a tailored, dark-grey suit, and a beloved Fedora. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson extends his hand to her, palm facing upwards, the barely-there smile on his face beckoning. She takes the proffered hand, and leaves the fields behind. 

Phryne Fisher doesn’t believe in fate, not really – except, perhaps, she does. And the thought doesn’t scare her anymore.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's quote (and Phryne's answer): ‘I’ll make my heaven in a lady’s lap’ (Henry VI part 3 – Act 3, Scene 2)
> 
> Gute nacht - 'good night' in German.
> 
> XX  
> Arlome

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this *is* a Phrack fic. Don't worry! :D


End file.
